


Ace of Hearts

by nayad-with-a-pen (ravenditefairylights)



Series: House of Cards [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Minerva McGonagall, F/F, F/M, Harry does not live with the Dursleys, Horcruxes mentioned, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marlene McKinnon Lives, Marriage Proposal, Multi, Politics, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Society, Regulus Black Lives, Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, Slytherin Sirius Black, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Welsh Remus Lupin, Wizengamot, and is putting up with none of your shit, baby Harry is adorable, comatose character, harry potter lives with his rightful guardians, possibly inaccurate legal proceedings, the longbottoms are not insane, walburga black cares a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-12 05:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19941304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenditefairylights/pseuds/nayad-with-a-pen
Summary: This, Sirius reflected as he stared at Dumbledore with his cold silver eyes reflecting the hate he was feeling, was not how this was supposed to go. Perhaps hate was too strong an emotion, but Sirius Black had always felt too intensely; either everything, or nothing at all. His emotions were in chaos at the moment, but one of them stood out. Cold, hard determination.I lost my brother, Sirius thought. I lost my best mate, my family. I will not lose Harry too.You will not take Harry away from me.....The war is won but the price paid is too high; Lily and James Potter are dead and their friends are left to pick up the pieces in the aftermath.Correcting mistakes, allying with questionable family members, arranging weddings and picking up the pieces of their broken hearts, all while trying to face the elephant in the room; where is The Boy Who Lived?The funeral is over, the coffins have been lowered and the final goodbyes have been said even though the pain doesn't fade away; what else is left to do but move on?





	Ace of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> for the lovely @celcbrimbor!! happy birthday james dear!!

**_5_** ** _th_ ** **_November 1981, France, Bordeaux, Bastide-Niel, Maison des Fleures_ **

Altair knew the Wizarding Community of Great Britain was at war, against a very powerful dark wizard that called himself the Dark Lord; or alternatively, Lord Voldemort. The name was absolutely ridiculous, it reminded him of bad French before he could think of fear. That was, partly, because he didn’t _live_ in the war. The witches and wizards of England felt fear before they thought to laugh at the absurdity of the self-acclaimed title. He knew that, because his aunt and uncle had died in it, as had his cousin, Prosper. It was one of those deaths that snapped you back to the cold, harsh reality of the war they were living in—Prosper and Amelia’s deaths on their wedding day, still inside the church, was what this Lord Voldemort was capable of.

His little sister, ever the rebel, ever the altruist, had gone to fight immediately after, helping his cousin and uncle pick up the pieces that were left of their family. As much as the inaction and inability to help was killing him, Altair knew he could not follow her and do the same. And whilst he had instructed her to write to him frequently and every time something happened, her letter still came as a shock.

“Cheri?” his wife—beautiful, amazing Celeste—inquired. “Is something of the matter?”

His daughter, ever perceptive even at the age of three, paused in her attempts to grab the pumpkin juice from the hands of their house elf to look at him with silent curiosity. Even Rabastan, barely a year old now, could understand that it was something important.

“Asterope wrote,” Altair said finally, eyes still trained on his sister’s letter. “The Dark Lord appears to have been defeated.”

“That is wonderful news, cheri!” Celeste smiled brightly and clapped her hands in excitement. “La guerre est finalement finie!”

“Yes,” Altair wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment; it was about time that blasted war had ended. But his sister’s letter wasn’t a particularly celebratory one. “However, Clara is at St Mungo’s hospital, in a dreadful condition. And it seems a lot of people had to suffer for that final act of resistance.”

Celeste gasped, horrified, bringing a hand to cover her mouth. “Will she be alright? Your cousin?” her eyes glittered with tears when Altair set his jaw instead of offering an answer.

“Maman?” Dominique asked with a small frown, sensing her mother was upset. Altair looked at his wife’s warm brown eyes in a silent question, and she didn’t hesitate to nod her agreement.

“Delphine!” he called, even though the house elf was a few chairs away from him, still holding the pumpkin juice obediently away from Dominique. “Pack our valises for an emergency visit to my cousin.” The elf nodded. “You will watch over the house whilst we are gone and cancel all my appointments for the foreseeable future. For all intents and purposes, my family and I are on a visit to my sisters, to celebrate the end of the war and do not know when we will be back.”

“Yes, master,” Delphine bowed slightly and apparated with a loud crack—pumpkin juice still in hand—that startled Rabastan into a crying fit Celeste rushed to console.

“Papa?” Dominique turned her questioning blue eyes at him, after the initial disappointment of the pumpkin juice's departure that had quickly been forgotten. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

“We are going to visit tante Clara and tante Asterope at London, lapin,” Altair Rowle smiled at his daughter. “Haven’t you missed them, amour?”

* * *

_**3rd**_ **_November 1981, England, London, St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_**

Asterope paced at the waiting room in St Mungo’s, whose walls were a sickening pale orange colour. She had to send a letter to her brother in France, she knew—even if her sister might have sent one herself already—but so far, the only thing she had managed to do once she heard the news was apparate to the hospital immediately and order Tilda to find Remus Lupin and instruct him to come here at his earliest convenience.

It had been two days. Two sodding days her cousin had been missing, and now that she was here, found but harmed, no one would tell her what was going on. Asterope had half a mind to hex a couple of healers, but she didn’t fancy a visit to the mental ward for herself.

Lupin would just have to get here faster, damn him.

Lily and James Potter, dead. Or at least that’s how the word went. Asterope had a hard time reconciling that particular piece of information with the image of the lively man and the fiery woman from her memories. Their son, Harry—their baby who was as old as her nephew—alive as far as they could tell, but there was no body. Only from the Potters and not from the Dark Lord; little Harry, as it was, had been whisked away by Dumbledore, which was frankly an appalling action. She knew for a fact that the Potters' will covered all possibilities; Dumbledore had no business sealing it.

And her cousin’s fiancé, Sirius Black, at Azkaban since that fateful Halloween night, believed to be the traitor that killed the Potters—the Dark Lord’s right-hand man. The idea of it was so surreal Asterope had laughed outright when she first heard it. Sirius Black was a Slytherin, yes, but then why did Slytherin have to be a synonym for evil? It didn’t make a leak of sense. Sirius Black was the heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, who had associated with more than a few dark wizards and witches over the years and had less than savory views on the rest of the magical community, yes. But a Death Eater? No, that wasn’t right.

Asterope had met him herself before, they were at the Order of Phoenix together. He was a little broken around the edges like a jagged glass, and somewhat ruthless when his anger got the better of him, but he wasn’t a Death Eater. He was the best Hit Wizard of the Auror Division is what he was, and she had seen him with James Potter.

The Potters were dead, but it wasn’t because Sirius Black had betrayed them to Voldemort. Everyone who’d met him at least once would say the same.

And then there was the issue of his imprisonment. Come dawn of the first of November, barely a day after the Potters’ death, and he had already been in Azkaban a good few hours. When on magic had his trial taken place? How much could they have possibly rushed it? Rushing was the recipe for sure disaster, her mother had always said.

“Asterope!” She turned when her name was called, to see Remus—robes hastily throw over himself, hair a mess and dark purple circles under his eyes—running towards her. “Asterope, what is it? I got your message, but your house elf didn’t say what happened—”

“They found her,” she said, interrupting him. Remus fell silent, eyes widening. “They found her, Remus. They found Clara.”

“How is she?” Remus demanded once he found his voice again. “Where is she? Is she alright? Can we see her?” The grip he had taken on her forearms was bordering on painful, and she suspected he might start shaking her if he didn’t get an answer.

“She’s been with the healers ever since they brought her in,” Asterope said. “They won’t tell me anything.”

Remus deflated almost immediately. He let go of her and run a hand through his already messy brown hair, making it even worse. Asterope had always gotten along with her cousin’s boyfriends, even though she had only ever exchanged pleasantries and small talk with them, but the defeated look of mindless worry on Remus’ face was the most relatable thing she’d seen all morning.

Remus Lupin looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and if they were being honest, he probably hadn’t. Personal hygiene didn’t seem to be high on his list either, if the wrinkled slept-in clothes and rumpled hair were anything to go by. It was a look—dark circles and everything—that Asterope was unfortunately all too familiar with; the worry of missing relatives and mates, the devastating grief of their deaths.

“I came back from a mission only two days ago,” Remus sighed, collapsing on a chair like his strings had been cut. “I wanted to be back home for Sirius’ birthday—did you know that was today?” Asterope didn’t, and she shook her head. “And instead of conspiring with Clara to make dinner and asking Marley to come to a night out with us, I come back to find everything has collapsed! Lily and James are...gone, Clara is missing, Marlene is on a mission since last week and Sirius is locked up in Azkaban! _Azkaban!_ ”

“It probably isn’t any consolation, but he really shouldn’t be there,” Asterope said gently, coming to sit next to him cautiously.

“That’s the worst thing, isn’t it?” Remus cried. “And I can’t even know for sure, because the only people who knew about the Potters’ secret keeper were them, Sirius and Clara.”

“I don’t know what happened with the secret keeper, but I've met Sirius and the Potters too, and I don't believe he would ever betray them,” Asterope said quietly. “And Harry shouldn't be wherever he is. He should be with you,” she added, and Remus turned to her so suddenly she thought his neck might break.

“What?”

“Surely they would intend for their family to raise Harry if something happened to them,” she pointed out, “The war is over now, raising Harry would be easier. _He_ is certainly gone—the Death Eaters are in chaos, there are arrests being made everywhere even as we speak.”

“Yeah, I heard about the Lestranges and Crouch Jr,” Remus said, referring to the arrests. She didn't miss how he ignored her comment about Harry. “They did this to her, didn’t they? Crouch Jr. was a surprise, but I can’t say the same thing for Sirius’s cousin.”

“They’re holding the trial tomorrow,” Asterope informed him. “But the Potters—”

“I don’t know, Asterope,” Remus said, his voice raw. “I don’t fucking know. Let’s just—one thing at a time, alright? I don’t think I can handle more than that now.”

“Alright,” Asterope agreed. She couldn’t blame him or begrudge him this; the Potters and Sirius had been Remus’ family. He wanted to focus on the one thing he could do something for right now, Clara. She let the silence settle around them for what felt like hours—and it might have been, too—broken by the cries from other visitors and the rustling sounds from the healers that run through the corridors.

“Miss Rowle?” Her head snapped up, and Remus’ mimicked her only a second behind. “Your cousin—”

“How is she?” Asterope demanded, jumping up from the chair, not even caring how rude she was being. “Is she going to be alright?”

“She’s stable,” the healer answered her first question with patience ingrained from years of informing upset relatives. The plump woman was in one of those suffocating white uniforms, her hair hidden by a small hat. She looked kind, but also sympathetic, and Remus hated it. “We have fixed all her broken bones and stopped the internal bleeding, but she has suffered sufficient physical damage.”

“But she’s going to be alright,” Remus pressed, his heart in his throat, trying very hard to keep the tears in. “She has to be. Please tell me she’ll be alright.”

“She is not in any immediate danger,” the healer replied cryptically. “She is unconscious, and has been since she was brought in. Even though she doesn’t appear to have any head wounds, she’s suffering from multiple concussions, and we cannot be sure how significant the damage will be when and if she wakes up.” The lump in Remus’ throat felt like it was suffocating him, and he felt Asterope reach for his hand and grip it tightly. “She was under the Cruciatus curse for a significant amount of time.”

“Can we—” the words got stuck in his throat and he swallowed hard and tried again. “Can we see her?”

The healer nodded, and Remus’ knees almost buckled in relief. If Asterope’s hard grip was any indication, she was feeling much the same. “Follow me,” the healer said, and disappeared down the corridor. Remus tried not to feel discouraged as they entered the mental ward.

Clara was going to be fine, she had to be. It pained him to admit, but she had been under the Cruciatus a lot of times before—they all had. If there was anything about her that Remus had never and could never doubt—it was many things, but only one crucial in this situation—it was that Clara’s mind was her strongest point. All Ravenclaw stereotypes and family pride aside, she was nothing if not of resilient mind. Clara Moore had always been a survivor. He just had to pray it would be enough this time.

“This is the room,” the healer said, pushing one of the doors of the left corridor open. “Healer Tonks will be supervising her—he was very insistent.”

Mentally, Remus let the gratitude for Ted Tonks, the husband of Sirius’ favourite cousin, flood over him. When this whole thing was over, he was going to send the man a goddamn fruit basket. If nothing else, Nymphadora would make good use of it.

“Thank you, Healer—?” Asterope said gratefully, inquiring for the woman’s name.

“Masters,” the woman replied with a small smile. “I’ll leave you alone.”

Remus nodded, but her words barely registered as his eyes found Clara inside the room. She was lying in one of the beds at St Mungo’s, against the bare white walls she was barely recognizable; her platinum hair one with the sheets, her skin so pale her freckles were barely visible over the purple bruises. He walked over to her unconsciously, sitting down—collapsing, really—on the chair next to her and wasting no time taking her hand between his own; half afraid he’d find it cold. It was hot and clammy the way Clara’s hand rarely were.

How many times were too many times to be lying in a hospital bed?

 _Every time_ , he decided, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

Asterope settled down on a chair at the bed’s opposite side and took hold of Clara’s other hand, but Remus didn’t pay her much attention. He couldn’t even pretend she was sleeping; Clara could never fall asleep on her back. She’d always curl up like a cat or use either him or Sirius as parts of the mattress. He was barely holding himself together by a single thread over the news of his best mates’ deaths as it was—he could not bear to dwell on what Asterope was saying—not to mention the turmoil of emotions that threatened to drown him. And now he could only hold her hand and pray.

If he prayed hard enough, held her hand tightly enough, she might hear him. Hear what he didn’t say aloud; _you can’t leave here me alone._

She’d come back. She had to. She always did.

Remus wasn’t too sure what he’d do if she didn’t.

* * *

**_7_** ** _th_ ** **_November 1981, England, London, Grimmauld Place Number 12_ **

Walburga Irma Black, neé Black, was furious. Enraged. _Livid_.

The portrait of Cygnus Black II at the Ministry of Magic had informed her, over an hour ago, that her firstborn son, the—albeit reluctant and questionable—heir of her House had been sent to Azkaban without a trial. An hour Walburga had spent—rightfully—seething. Not on _his_ behalf, of course, but at the dignity of her House, and the pride of any self-respected pureblood.

How _dare_ they, the blood-traitors and the muggle-lovers, to treat a child of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black with such blatant disrespect?

It was a sign of how lenient the Ministry had become without her husband there to rein all those fools in. Occupied with arresting the Death Eaters and administering justice—ha! Walburga would have laughed if she was a different person. Her firstborn son, sentenced without as much as a trial, when it was so blatantly obvious that he wasn’t even guilty. She herself had agreed with the ideas and ideals that Lord Voldemort had preached, but his… methods of execution were where her agreement with him stopped. Why get their hands dirty torturing all these filthy mud-freaks and by-products of dirt and vileness, when they could easily achieve their elimination with more diplomatic means?

Her son had not even agreed with this, the ungrateful child. He was _fond_ of the mudbloods and the half-breeds. Sirius was sneaky and capable enough that she might have believed he was a double agent the whole time, but she knew her child better. He loved the Potter boy too much for that.

But now he was in Azkaban because of Bellatrix’s foolish stunt a few days before—the disgrace! The audacity of these _fools_ in the Ministry! It was that Crouch’s fault, she would bet; Orion had always said he was too much driven by a misplaced sense of justice.

Walburga would not allow this… this _slander_ to continue. Not on _his_ behalf, of course, but someone needed to remind these weak-willed paws of justice the position the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black possessed.

Its power was not gone, not if Walburga had a say in it.

“KREACHER!” she screeched, satisfied to see the elf immediately apparate in front of her.

“Mistress called for Kreacher?” the elf bowed so low his long nose swept the floor.

“Kreacher, inform my useless brother and my son in Wales, or wherever the two of them are this time, that Sirius has been sent to Azkaban without a trial and they are to come home immediately,” she ordered in her voice that did not leave room for any disagreements; not that Kreacher was likely to have any. Expectedly, he bowed in acknowledgement. “But before you do that, inform my father-in-law, Arcturus Black, of the situation his disgraceful favourite grandson has gotten himself in.”

“Yes, mistress,” Kreacher said with another bow. “Is there anything else mistress desires that Kreacher can provide?”

“Take out my best robes,” Walburga ordered. “The green ones.” It wasn’t a very helpful piece of information for their distinction; most of her robes were green. Kreacher, of course, would get the right ones. The elf was useful like that. “I will be visiting the Ministry at once.”

“Of course, mistress,” Kreacher said. “Does mistress desire her favourite hat as well?”

Walburga thought it over; the hat was imposing and large on her head, but it hid a part her face, and she wanted to put the fear of the House of Black in those fools—they should know exactly just how furious Walburga was with their incompetence. “No, Kreacher,” she decided. “That will be all.”

“As mistress desires,” Kreacher said, and with another low bow and a loud crack he disappeared to complete the tasks. Satisfied, Walburga made to climb the stairs to her bedroom.

She had been reluctant to send Regulus—her one good son—with her useless brother, but when she realized that Lord Voldemort was looking to recruit him through Bellatrix, she knew she had to get him far away from the claws of her goddaughter. Regulus was barely twenty now—had been sixteen then—and she would not tolerate her _child_ join such an… organization. Blacks bowed to no one, whether they called themselves a Dark Lord or not.

Alphard was better than Bellatrix, in that respect, and Walburga regretfully did not have many choices. She had no doubt they would be trying to recruit Sirius as well—for all his shameful habits, the boy was a powerful wizard with an apt for the dark arts that Walburga had made sure to instill herself—but he would not join then, she was certain, he was stubborn as a bull like that.

Well, he had to get _something_ worth inheriting from her, that he could not twist to his own purposes.

She noted that the green pair of robes on the bed that Kreacher had left for her were not the ones she had meant, but they were appropriate still. One of the many reasons she kept the elf around. Just the right length, and the perfect emerald green to remind these fools that her heritage was nothing to be ashamed of or be taken lightly.

How they could not see that her son was a blood-traitor, a stain in the reputation of the House of Black, she could not understand. They had never been the brightest of fellows, admittedly.

A stain in the House of Black, her firstborn son might be, but he was still of the House. The utter disrespect shown to a scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was nothing to be taken lightly—if Walburga let them get away with this, the next time those mud-wallowers might think it was perfectly fine to treat a _worthy_ member of the House of Black that way. Her worthless son, with his irresponsible actions, had managed to set a precedent, and a bad one at that. That was most definitely _not_ acceptable.

Walburga changed her garments with a swift flick of her wand—what was the point of magic if you had to get dressed like a common muggle?—and reached for her purse. It was charmed to provide her with whatever she needed, and it had come in handy many times. Right, then.

That incompetent mudblood-lover fool, Bartemius Crouch, was overdue a visit.

She didn’t bother with walking down the stairs again to get to the fireplace, but instead apparated directly in front of it. The use of the floo network was the only fast way to enter the Ministry of Magic; only the half-muds and the blood-traitors used the entrance located at muggle London, and Walburga was none of these things. All these muggles… she had half a mind to leave Grimmauld Place and live at the Black Manor, even before her marriage, but no children of filth would drive _her_ away from the house of her ancestors. It had been there before them, after all.

Walburga made sure to be very clear when she demanded to appear at Level 2, where the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was located. Stepping out of the fireplace, she dusted the—green, of course—floo powder from her person and walked confidently to the Head’s office, schooling her expression into that of seething but contained rage. She relished at the clicking of her heels against the marble floors, and the awed stares she was receiving.

 _Good,_ let them stare. It might make them realize who they were dealing with.

The girl at the desk outside Crouch’s office looked positively terrified to see her heading her way, and Walburga inwardly smirked as she came to a stop in front of her.

“I want to see Bartemius Crouch immediately,” she demanded. The girl—a mudblood, most likely, since her look was more one of fear than recognition—did not move. “Did you not hear what I just said? I want to see Crouch immediately,” Walburga snapped, not bothering to conceal her irritation.

“Do you have an appointment?” the girl rushed to ask then.

“No,” Walburga said. “Neither do I need one. Go fetch Crouch.”

“Mr. Crouch re-retreated to his office and said he is not to be di-disturbed,” the girl stuttered.

“That is none of my concern,” Walburga dismissed, sneering at the inability of proper speech. “Inform him that Walburga _Black,_ ” she made sure to stress the last name and smirked slightly when the girl’s eyes widened, “is here and will see him.”

The girl looked like she might refuse, but after a moment and as Walburga was ready to snap at her again, she nodded, and with jerky movements rose from the desk and knocked at Crouch’s office. Were all the current staff this _useless_ around here?

 _“I made it clear I was not to be disturbed!”_ Walburga could make out Crouch’s voice even from behind the closed wooden door.

“There is someone here to see you, sir,” the girl said weakly, wincing at the volume of Crouch’s voice. Mudblood or not, this was no way to treat your employees, Walburga mused.

 _“Tell them to come by tomorrow!”_ Crouch continued at the same tone, and she pursued her lips in disapproval. Incompetent and rude on top of it. Tsk, tsk, how had the Ministry deteriorated after her husband’s death.

“It’s Walburga Black, sir,” the girl said, and for a moment there was silence. Then the door opened, rather hastily, with Bartemius Crouch standing behind it like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar. His purple robes were wrinkled and his hair, short as they were, appeared… messy would be the expression her abomination of a son would have used.

“Mrs. Black,” Crouch greeted, and visibly composed himself. “My sincerest apologies if Matilda inconvenienced you, she’s new, you see—”

“The only one inconveniencing me in a variety of ways at the moment is you, Mr. Crouch,” Walburga said icily. “Your assistant... Matilda here was very helpful, coming to get you as soon as I asked, despite your less than savory manners.” The man in question blanched.

“Mrs. Black, please, come in my office where we can discuss the reason for your visit freely,” Crouch offered, opening his office door wider.

“I have no intention of entertaining your dreadful and forced hospitality, Mr. Crouch,” Walburga continued, satisfied to see his jaw clench. “You know perfectly well the reason for my visit here today. I have come to demand the immediate release of my son.”

Crouch’s eyebrows rose, but he composed himself fairly quickly. “Mrs. Black, you must understand it is not within my rights to release prisoners—”

“It is, however, your _obligation_ to administer justice, which you seem to have spectacularly failed at.” Walburga glared harder without changing her expression at all. Crouch’s cheeks coloured.

“I assure you, as difficult as it is to accept it, your son is a criminal, and a Death Eater—”

“Just because _your_ son had the lack of sense to become a Death Eater does not mean my son did as well,” Walburga said lightly. Crouch’s eyes flashed. “I demand his release immediately.”

“Mrs. Black, you do not have the authority to override the law—”

“And the law does not have the authority to surreptitiously sentence people, much less _purebloods_ , to Azkaban without trial or hard, concrete evidence for that matter, so I’m hardly overriding the _law_ now, am I? More like overriding your insubordination.”

Crouch’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “There was no trial needed, he was caught at the scene—”

“A fact that hardly condemns him as guilty,” Walburga countered calmly. “And need I remind you, Bartemius, that all citizens of the Wizarding World have a right to a trial, no matter the evidence, that you do _not_ have a sufficient amount of, might I add.” Crouch looked like he wanted to comment on that, but he knew better than to interrupt her. “As the Head of the DMLE, I feel you should already be aware of this. Not to mention that refusing the heir of an Ancient and Noble House a trial is hardly a smart way to proceed.”

“Sirius Black is You-Know-Who’s right hand!” Crouch protested, louder than was appropriate.

“If the Dark Lord was left-handed, perhaps,” Walburga replied calmly. “I do not see a reason to refuse my son a trial when Bellatrix Lestrange, a _known_ Death Eater is allowed one. My goddaughter is hardly an example of righteousness and altruism.”

“That has nothing to do with—”

“It hardly makes a difference to me, Bartemius, who your department will find to blame the Potters’ deaths on, but it will not be my son. I want his name cleared, and I want him sent home,” Walburga stated, with the calm conviction of someone who knew they would get what they wanted.

“He is a danger to the Wizarding World!” Crouch openly yelled now, red in the face and breathing with a little difficulty.

“So is incompetence to perform one’s obligations to the community, but I see much of it nowadays,” Walburga returned.

“My apologies, Mrs. Black, but I refuse to entertain the whims of a broken-hearted mother—”

“You will watch your tongue when you speak to me,” Walburga snapped warningly. “Or you will find yourself with no tongue at all. My son is innocent. If you will not release him immediately, then I demand a trial for him. One he should have _already_ received.”

“Albus Dumbledore is convinced of his guilt,” Crouch countered, as if it was an unquestionable argument. He seemed to have regained some of his composure, or at least he was fighting for it.

“Albus Dumbledore is hardly the epitome of a sound mind,” Walburga returned. “And he does _not_ speak for my son. A trial is within his rights, Crouch, not even you can deny him that.”

“There is no point! He is guilty!” Crouch insisted with a conviction Walburga was quickly becoming tired of. The fools at the Ministry were much more dim-witted than she had thought.

“So is your son and the Lestranges, but they will still receive a trial,” Walburga pointed out. “Favouritism does not become you, Bartemius.” The man’s cheeks flushed once more, but Walburga was not finished. “My son was the most—perhaps the only—competent Hit Wizard of your Auror Division, with verified kills against Death Eaters. Hardly sounds like a servant of the Dark Lord to me.”

“He was found at the scene, laughing like a maniac!” Crouch insisted. “We caught him red-handed! The evidence speaks for itself!”

“Did my son bear the Dark Mark?” Walburga asked calmly, forcing her rising anger down. Crouch seemed baffled for a moment but strode on with more determination than he should have.

“Well…no, I suppose, but he was a spy! It hardly matters,” he reasoned.

“You _fool_!” Walburga exploded. “You did not even check, did you? And our world depends on _you_ to keep them safe—you, who could not even bother with your own son long enough to tell he was a Death Eater, under your nose the whole time, and you cannot even find it in your small ignorant mind to think of making sure someone is a Death Eater before sending them off to Azkaban!”

Crouch was red like the banner of Gryffindor, but his eyes were set hard, a sure sign that there was no changing his mind. It made Walburga even more furious than she already was.

“What is the meaning of this?” A familiar hard voice demanded, and Walburga smirked smugly. Arcturus Black strode over to them, with a dangerous glint in his grey eyes. He was late, but he was here, and as long as Walburga got what she wanted, she was willing to overlook that.

“I have come to request a trial for my son,” she said to her father-in-law sweetly. “After it came to my attention that he had not received one before he was sentenced to Azkaban.”

“Crouch!” Arcturus Black barked gruffly. “What is this I hear? My _heir_ received a trial, did he not?” the look in his eyes dared Crouch to try and tell him no. The Head of the DMLE might have been foolish enough to believe he could get away with refusing a furious Walburga—a very big mistake, truly—but refusing Arcturus _and_ Walburga Black when they were _both_ furious was a mistake not even that mud-wallower was willing to make.

“These days have been very hectic for the Ministry, Mr. Black,” Crouch started. “It is true that some technicalities may have been overlooked—”

“And yet your son is receiving a trial, I hear. Hardly a _technicality_ now, more of an obligatory step, I would say. But of course, the Head of the DMLE should know this better than me,” Arcturus said, and Crouch had the decency to flush again.

“I regret to inform you that Sirius Black _is_ guilty—”

“That hardly matters to me,” Arcturus did not even let him finish, and his glare did the rest of the job in ensuring Crouch would not open his mouth again to do anything else than agree. “I _demand_ a trial for my grandson _immediately_. I will not ask twice. The incompetence of your Department is shameful! This, Crouch, borders on defamation, and my family and I will not stand for it!”

It was then, perhaps, that Crouch realized Arcturus Black could sue the whole Department for incompetence and inability to uphold the laws and their respective procedure, and when her son was found innocent, could sue them _again_ for slander and defamation. Walburga could see the exact moment it occurred to Crouch, and she smirked when the colour drained from his face.

“Of course not, Mr. Black. We will re-evaluate Sirius Black’s case immediately and repair any and all mistakes that may have been made,” he assured hurriedly.

“That’s what I thought you said the first time,” Arcturus Black looked down at him from over his nose. “Walburga dear, your brother and son await our arrival at the Black Manor with my wife,” he said as he turned to her. “Let us not keep them waiting.”

* * *

**_10_** ** _th_ ** **_November 1981, Location Unknown, Headquarters of the Order of Phoenix_ **

It would suffice to say that Marlene was way out of her depth here. This did not, in any way, mean that she was wrong, or that she would drop everything to accept Dumbledore's words as gospel.

Hardly.

She respected the man, of course. But as he stood in front of her, ridiculous crimson robes, tiny glasses and a white beard all the way down to the floor, informing her sadly that her best mate was dead and the other one was the traitor that killed her, Marlene thought all these rumours of Dumbledore going loony might not be so unlikely after all.

“It doesn’t matter how many times you repeat it,” she said, sighing exasperatedly. “I don’t believe you.”

“Marlene,” Dumbledore said equally exasperatedly, “surely, you understand that James and Lily are dead—”

“I heard that part,” Marlene snapped. “My best mate and my cousin are both dead. It’s the _why_ that has me baffled.”

“Sirius Black betrayed them to Lord Voldemort,” Dumbledore said calmly in what had to be the fourth time so far.

“Sirius did no such thing!” Marlene snapped even as Dorcas laid a hand on her arm in a silent gesture of comfort and a reminder to calm down. “He would never betray James, much less to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! He is no Death Eater.”

“The facts remain, Marlene,” Dumbledore was using his annoyingly calm voice in order to persuade her, but she was having none of it. “Sirius Black was the Potters’ secret keeper, and he was the only one who could have told Lord Voldemort the location of their house.”

“It also remains, Albus,” McGonagall cut in, “that the Sirius Black I know and taught would never do such a thing.”

“Maybe they tortured it out of him,” Dorcas speculated. She looked impassive, but her arms were crossed over her chest and her green eyes were narrowed. She wasn’t convinced of Sirius’ guilt either.

“You must understand, Ms. Meadows, Minerva, that the Fidelius is made so the address cannot be tortured out of the secret keeper. It must be given willingly,” Dumbledore explained patiently. “The only explanation I can divulge from this is that Sirius Black was a spy for the Dark Lord the whole time.”

“He was not!” Marlene exploded. Her brother, her parents, her aunt and uncle and her cousins had all found terrible deaths at the hands of You-Know-Who’s Death Eaters. Sirius was _not_ , he could _not_ be one of them.

“I can see no other explanation for this, Ms. McKinnon,” Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and opened his arms wide in a what-can-you-do gesture, the equivalent of a shrug. It made Marlene furious.

“Listen here you—” she started, pointing a finger accusingly and starting to walk towards him, but Dorcas—fearing a fight—pulled her back, cutting her words off. “This is my best mate you’re talking about!” she cried. “You don't get to shrug it off, don’t you _dare_! Sirius is as much a member of the Order as we are!”

“No one can deny that,” Frank Longbottom said, shaking his head like he still couldn’t believe any of this had happened. He and his family had come out of hiding in their own Fidelius charm just yesterday—he and Alice were the first people to tell her and Dorcas what had happened when they came back from their mission only today. “And he was an Auror too—Moody always said Sirius was his best Hit Wizard.”

“A ploy as extravagant and strong as that needs the most concrete of alibis,” Dumbledore answered without actually saying anything.

“Why are you so reluctant to believe there might be something more here?” Marlene demanded. “You _know_ Sirius, you know how close he and James were! Hell, Sirius _lived_ with the Potters when he run away from his house!”

“Like I said, Marlene, it had to be believable,” Dumbledore replied with infuriating simplicity.

“I don’t believe this,” she shook her head, as if it could take away Dumbledore’s face and his lack of faith in Sirius. “You’re always so ready to give people a second chance—just look at what you did with Snape!” she exploded. That was another sore point she disagreed strongly with, and she had been waiting to yell at him for it. “How is Snape any different from Sirius?”

“Severus had long repented of his actions,” was the only thing Dumbledore replied with.

“He’s the one who _murdered_ the Moores!” Dorcas shot, all her calm façade gone in an instant, replaced by tightly closed fists and green eyes that shot metaphorical flames of anger; even her brown hair was like a halo of enraged righteousness around her head.

“He did _what_?” Marlene had never heard McGonagall sound like that, not even when she was rightfully livid at one of the marauders’ pranks. Her voice rose about an octave higher than usual and for the first time since she knew the woman, her features were pulled into a blatant, clear expression of furious shock. “And I shook hands with him!”

“That particular detail has never been deciphered,” Dumbledore replied. It was like the man was _trying_ to be slapped across the face, and Marlene’s hand itched to do it.

“Then decipher it!” McGonagall cried, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “If there is even a _possibility_ that he murdered my students—on their wedding, no less!—I refuse to entertain him anywhere that is more than five miles away from Azkaban. Much less a school! Full of _children_!”

“Minerva, please—”

“No, Albus! If you are bringing a possible teacher to associate with me and the children at Hogwarts, you had better make sure he didn’t have the slightest relation to You-Know-Who!” Next to her, Dorcas whistled, and Marlene could agree; her own eyes were wide as sausages. She had never seen McGonagall this livid. Frank looked surprised, but generally unfazed—she supposed she would be too, if she’d grown up with Augusta Longbottom. “If you don't do something about this, I will press charges against him myself!”

“Severus was gathering information from the Dark Lord for me,” Dumbledore admitted, looking somewhat reluctant.

“Nobody cares!” Marlene yelled, all attempts to be calm flying out the window. “Snape is a Death Eater, the one that killed Prosper and Amelia Moore! Clara was there, she saw him and I believe her!” A thought occurred to her then, and she realized that Dumbledore had not mentioned her or Remus. “Where _is_ Clara?” she demanded.

There was a moment of silence.

“Actually, I want to hear that too,” Frank said, looking a lot more interested in the conversation than he had been at its previous duration. “Did she and Remus take Harry into hiding?” At the mention of Harry Potter, McGonagall pursued her lips the way she did when she was displeased with something, and something akin to dread filled Marlene.

“Where. Is. Clara.” She didn’t voice it as a question this time. She noted that Dumbledore looked uncomfortable, and McGonagall’s expression could be described as sorrowful. Marlene’s stomach clenched.

“You have all no doubt heard the Lestranges were convicted,” Dumbledore started.

“I hadn’t, actually, but that’s good to know,” Frank said. “What about them?”

“The Lestranges and Barty Crouch Jr. were sentenced to Azkaban for torturing Clara Moore,” Dumbledore said, and Marlene felt her knees buckle. Dorcas, her wonderful, outspoken Dorcas, gripped her around the shoulders and brought her close. “She is not dead, but the healers don’t believe she is very likely to wake up after the injuries she received.”

“Oh Merlin,” Marlene croaked, and she could see McGonagall hide her face and Frank cover his mouth with the back of his hand as if he might throw up.

“And you just thought it was better not to mention this?” Dorcas demanded angrily. “Is she at St Mungo’s? Is Remus there?”

“Yes and yes,” Dumbledore confirmed with a nod. “And I have been informed her cousin flooed from France as soon as he heard the news.”

“They were going to get married,” Marlene whispered, still unable to believe it had all gone so bad in just one night.

“Who was?” Frank asked gently, from his seat on the wall, sympathetic and mindful as always.

“Sirius and Clara,” Marlene said. “They were supposed to get married. It was… it was fairly recent, only two months ago—they didn’t want anyone to know.” McGonagall looked horrified, both hands coming up to cover her gasp. “He’s innocent, you don’t understand.” It came out as a whisper, thick from the tears she fought against. “Sirius wouldn’t… he never would have—” The sob came out against her will, and Dorcas gently gathered her in her arms. Marlene hid her face against the crook of her neck that smelled of apples and cinnamon.

“Where is Harry?” her girlfriend asked, her voice vibrating through her spine. “Who is Harry staying with now?”

“Harry is safe,” Dumbledore replied simply. “He’s safe and cared for.”

Marlene wasn’t about to let the lack of an _actual_ answer go so easily, but there were more pressing matters at the moment. More pressing matters she could do something about.

“Sirius is innocent,” she said in a steady voice, reemerging from the crook of Dorcas’ neck and wiping her tears with her palms hastily.

“Sirius Black was convicted as a Death Eater,” Dumbledore said with a tone of finality; the closest she had heard him sound of anger.

“Actually, he was not.” A new voice said, and they all turned to see Kingsley Shacklebolt join them. “Amelia Bones flooed me as soon as the she learned—she was equal parts horrified and furious. Sirius Black never had a trial.”

“Say that again,” Marlene demanded going alarmingly still even as McGonagall collapsed down in one of the chairs. Kingsley had always been nice—she’d go as far as to call him her mate, even—and she knew he didn’t deserve the harsh tone she was giving him, but she couldn’t take it back. Kingsley, for his part, did not seem offended.

“Sirius Black never had a trial,” he repeated, and Marlene could barely register the sheer horror of the information as she felt rage boil up inside her. And Dumbledore had the _nerve_ to try and persuade them Sirius was guilty. “Matilda Susans, Crouch’s assistant told Amelia—who is well and properly on the warpath of righteous fury.”

“How did Susans know?” Dorcas asked, and Marlene allowed that it was a good question.

“Apparently Walburga Black caught whiff of it and made a fuss, demanding a trial for her son,” Kingsley said. Marlene blinked.

“I’m sorry, did you say—”

“Walburga Black?” Kingsley’s smile had a bitter edge to it. “I know, I was surprised too, especially after everything Sirius and James said about her. Arcturus Black was there too.”

“So, it’s safe to assume Sirius _will_ be getting a trial,” Frank concluded. He had summoned a glass of water for McGonagall, was he was now standing behind her, holding it empty.

“He will,” Kingsley nodded. “The Blacks asked for a private one, and Amelia will be holding it herself.”

“Good,” Marlene said, looking over at Dumbledore with a dare in his eyes. She couldn’t read his expression, but she hoped for his own good that he hadn’t known Sirius was surreptitiously imprisoned.

This conversation was three buses, five highways and a taxi to the Botanic Gardens away from over.

* * *

**_1_ 2** ** _th_ ** **_November 1981, England, London, St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_**

The headline wrote **_‘SIRIUS BLACK INNOCENT’_ ** with extravagant bold capital letters and Remus had only felt such profound relief when his friends found out he was werewolf and didn’t abandon him.

He had no idea what had happened with the secret keeper—he did not actually open to Prophet to read through it—but only the knowledge that Sirius was no longer in Azkaban was enough to lift some of the weight from his chest. He’d told Clara about it already; he’d told her everything. A week now, he had done nothing else but talk to her. The healers weren’t very hopeful she’d wake up, but both Asterope and Altair, who’d shown up a few days later, had been adamant that she wasn’t going anywhere until she does. Ted and Emmeline had been pretty much the entire supply of Remus’ strength these last few days.

Remus was slightly ashamed to admit that he hadn’t been able to pull himself together to owl Clara’s best mate to inform her—or anyone else, really—of the situation, but Emmeline Vance was nothing if not efficient. She’d shown up the next day with three coffees, a clean set of his own clothes he had no idea how she’d come in possession of, a stack of books and forced him to take care of himself and hadn’t stopped since.

The third day Asterope had gone to visit her sister in Ireland, only to return the next day with her brother, Altair Rowle, who appeared to have taken all of his frustrations and worries about his cousin’s health on the poor healers. Ted had said that they kept pressing him to say his goodbyes, and so had deserved at least some of it. Ted Tonks was the first person who wasn’t Clara’s relative, best mate or boyfriend, to insist she _was_ going to wake up and she’d be fine. Marlene had come by too and said the same.

Remus hoped so—Merlin, he _hoped_ so.

Currently, Emma had made herself scarce to some muggle bookstore because it was that time of the day that the turmoil of emotions inside Remus was so bad he needed an hour—or a few—to himself, and Asterope had disappeared somewhere in the hospital with Altair’s three-year-old toddler. Celeste had been immensely kind and understanding; she’d even sewed him a good luck charm that little Dominique had hesitantly come over to give him.

The small midnight blue—the same colour as Clara’s eyes—circular cloth with the woven stars was currently hanging over her head on the bed. It was some sort of dream-catcher, as far as he understood, but the white noise had been too much to do more than smile gratefully at Dominique and accept it. Emma had hanged it up.

He needed to pull himself together is what he needed to do.

The how was a very reasonable question.

He didn’t turn when the door opened, assuming it was Ted again, but stayed still leaning against the wall next to Clara’s bed, gripping her hand like a lifeline. He turned sharply, however, when a _very_ familiar voice called his name—no, nickname.

“Moony?”

He had pushed the chair back before he even realized it and looked up.

Sirius looked even better than the last time Remus had seen him, a month ago. He was in a pair of silk green robes that the werewolf was certain Walburga had forced him into for appearances’ sake, with little silver clasps at the sleeves and the emblem of the House of Black pinned over his heart. His ink-black hair was shorter, cut so it barely reached past his chin, but it looked slick and shiny anyway. He stood tall—or as tall as Sirius could stand—and tense, but his face was open and so very _tired_. The only thing wrong were his eyes; they looked too old for him, the quicksilver in them a dull almost grey. Remus supposed if he had a mirror, his eyes would look much the same.

He didn’t even think. He was grabbing hold of Sirius’ shoulders and pulling him against him before he realized he’d crossed the room, and it wasn’t until he had his nose buried in Sirius’ hair, breathing him in, that it hit him how much he _needed_ that.

Emma _had_ hugged him, of course; the first day she hadn’t really done much more than hug and boss him around—for his own good, but still. But despite it all, Remus had needed Sirius to wrap his slender arms tightly around him as he was doing now. He let out something that was caught between a laugh and a sob and held him tighter.

“You twat,” Remus said shakily, pulling back a little to look at Sirius’ face. “You complete and absolute _moron_.” The words were punctuated by a kiss but didn’t let himself relish in it for too long, lest he got lost in it. “How the hell did you even manage that?”

They both knew what Remus was talking about.

“Honestly, I was so furious I barely remember most of it,” Sirius shrugged. “I know you must have read it all in the Prophet by now, but I’m so sorry Remus, I truly am.”

“The only thing I’ve read in the Prophet is the headline,” Remus said honestly. “Bit hard to miss.” He gestured to the paper lying by Clara’s bedside, and pulled a chair for Sirius next to his. “How does now sound for an explanation?”

“It sounds fair,” Sirius nodded as he took a seat next to Remus. His eyes strayed to Clara, and he brushed a hair from her forehead gently. “I should be here in a bed too, being looked over for any damage the Dementors left behind, but I just… I needed to see her first,” he admitted. “How is she doing?”

“Same as she did when they brought her in,” Remus admitted bitterly. “She’s physically fine, all broken bones repaired, all internal bleeding’s stopped, but she’s in a coma. Something about too many hours under the Cruciatus and multiple concussions.”

“She’s strong, she’ll be fine,” Sirius said, and it sounded like he was trying to reassure himself. Remus had done the same, said the same, more times than he could count now.

“They don’t think she’ll wake up,” Remus admitted. It felt slightly better admitting it to someone who felt exactly the same way he did, but not too much.

“She will,” Sirius insisted, with more confidence now. “She has to come back and yell at Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore?” Remus frowned.

“Right, you don’t know,” Sirius said, exhaling loudly and visibly bracing himself. “When Lily and James went into hiding, after Dumbledore suggested the Fidelius they asked me to be their secret keeper. I said no. It would be too easy—I’d be the first one everyone would suspect, and Bellatrix would be delighted to try and get the information out of me. But James insisted that he didn’t trust anyone else, and Clara came up with this idea. We thought it was brilliant at the time.” He barked out a laugh that managed to sound strangled and bitter at the same time. “She said we should tell Dumbledore I was the secret keeper but actually make it be Peter.”

Remus felt like he’d been slapped. He remembered the first headlines of Sirius’ arrest; a street blown up, thirteen muggles dead and Peter mutilated until only his finger was left, but he couldn't dwell too much on it, he didn't think he could handle _that_ on top of everything else. The whole weight of the revelation settled in, and Remus was glad he was already sitting down.

“James made Peter the secret keeper,” Sirius continued in the same grim voice of suppressed rage. “We didn’t tell you anything, and there’s nothing I regret more than the fact that we didn't trust you enough. But there was… that night we went to check up on Peter, but he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. By the time we realized there was something wrong and apparated to Godric's Hollow so fast it’s a wonder we didn’t splinter ourselves in the process, the house was already in shambles and Lily and James were—” Sirius choked on the next words, and Remus had to gently pry his hands away from his face.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, even though it really wasn’t.

“Harry was still alive,” Sirius sounded so happy that Remus’ heart clenched. “He was still _alive_. We were going to just take him home, but then Hagrid showed up. Some orders-from-Dumbledore bullshit. He wanted Harry and wouldn’t leave without him.” Remus felt a flash of irritation that he’d pushed down the previous days; what could Dumbledore possibly want with Harry? “I would have just stood there all night arguing, but Clara demanded to know where Harry would be taken, and then finally we gave him to Hagrid.”

“Where is Harry now?” Remus asked, mentally slapping himself he hadn’t sought Dumbledore out to ask.

“With the Dursleys,” Sirius said, and then cut in before Remus could get his indignant protests out. “I don’t know why, but we weren’t—I’m not—planning to leave him there for long. Clara was as furious at Peter’s betrayal as I was, and she said Harry should be safe whilst we dealt with the aftermath of everything. She said she’d take care of the inheritance, death certificates, the will... everything. She said I should go after Peter. I didn’t need much convincing—I was seething, and I wanted revenge, I still do—and so I agreed.”

“But the plan blew up when the Lestranges captured Clara,” Remus concluded. He didn’t want to admit it, but that _did_ sound like something Clara and Sirius would do.

Sirius grimaced. “I didn’t know about any of it until I met my mother at the Ministry’s cells,” he admitted.

“I’m sorry,” Remus said. “That your mother was the one to get you out of Azkaban—it should have been us.”

“It should have been,” Sirius agreed. “But I'm not holding it against you, you were worried about her most, as you should be. I’m just glad to be out, honestly. That place was hell. I would have left my bones there if it was up to Crouch and Dumbledore.”

“What?” Remus demanded in alarm. “Why?”

“I didn’t get a trial before I was sent there the first time,” Sirius said, and Remus had a single moment to feel horrified before his boyfriend went on. “They found me at the scene, wand still clutched in my hand. The street was blown up and all the muggles were dead—Peter was gone. I mean, I can’t really blame them for jumping to conclusions, I was sitting in the middle of it, laughing like a maniac with tears running down my face, screaming.”

“That’s no reason to throw you in Azkaban!” Remus protested hotly.

“They didn’t check for the Dark Mark, or if my wand was the one that cast the spell,” Sirius shook his head, sounding resigned. Remus, on the other hand, was livid, but he pushed it down. “Before I had time to process any of it, I was already in Azkaban. I’m still not convinced my mother hasn’t lost it—she was _concerned_ about me. Of course, she said she got me out because we mustn’t set a precedent and the Ministry dares treat a _worthy_ member of the House of Black the same way.” He sounded bitter, and Remus couldn’t blame him. “But I’m out now, and I intend to use my reinstatement as the heir to my full advantage.”

“They reinstated you?” Remus couldn’t hide his surprise.

“They learned I was engaged to a respectable, high class pureblood, and grandfather thought it was good enough as long as I swore to uphold the honor of the House, and now I’m the heir again,” Sirius said. “Honestly, I think it has more to with the fact that they used the heir excuse to get me out, and now that my innocence has been proven they don’t want to look like they lied. Whatever it was, it works in my favor, and I’m going to use that.”

“Use that how?” Remus asked. He felt like his head might explode from all the information he was receiving if he didn’t have a few minutes to process it.

“Well, Moony,” Sirius said, and his signature grin made an appearance, even if it was a bit forced, “in the next few days I have to clean my name, clean my House’s name, unseal the Potters’ will and gain custody over Harry, get rid of Snape and make sure Dumbledore can’t stop me—because I'm still cross he testified against me. Oh, and get married.”

Remus’ head hurt only thinking about it. “Your mother’s idea?”

“The majority of it, yes,” Sirius nodded. “I just wish Clara was here.” He caressed her cheek gently with one hand, a fond smile on his lips.

“She’s going to scream her voice hoarse at both of us when she comes back,” Remus shook his head, but the same fond smile was playing at his lips too as he looked at her. “And then tear a new one at these morons at the Ministry, and probably Dumbledore.”

“Definitely Dumbledore,” Sirius corrected. “I’m looking forward to it. What do you think, darling? We’ll have this mess fixed in no time.”

Remus knew it was Clara he was addressing; it was something he himself had been doing a lot of, with no response. Which was probably why he froze, body going rigid, when Clara’s dark midnight blue eyes shot open—the only colour against these bloody white sheets—and opened her mouth. This whole time he had speculated, but he had no idea what she was going to say when she woke up, and it wasn’t until she said it that he realized; _of course it would be this._

After nine days and six hours, against the pessimism—realism—of the healers, Clara Moore woke up and said one single word.

“HARRY!”

* * *

**_14_** ** _th_ ** **_November 1981, England, London, Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Level 2, Office of Auror Amelia Bones_ **

When Clara first woke up at the hospital, she was assaulted by what she belatedly recognized as her boyfriends; Sirius in silk wizard robes apologizing profoundly before she had a chance to register what was happening, and Remus in a muggle sweater and jeans gripping both of them as if his life depended on it.

It had felt good—no, it had felt _healing_ —to hold on to them and cry until her throat was raw. For an hour, they hadn’t really done anything else. Sirius had mentioned an explanation due, but the healers came in to probe her and check on her whilst muttering ‘impossible’ and sometimes she thought she caught the word ‘miracle’. She was tempted to say that her fairy magic was no miracle, but didn’t. When the second hour clocked, Ted kicked them all out and finished checking her up himself. Thus, after she had finished being thoroughly and elaborately examined by the healers, she had to tolerate the visits; not that she wasn’t happy to see her family, but she was knackered and ironically just wanted to sleep.

Emma had hugged her until she couldn’t breathe, and when Marlene came around—with Dorcas attached to the hip, promising to bring Frank and McGonagall around next time—she was crying.

Clara didn’t intend to stay at St Mungo’s long enough to warrant a next time, and she told Altair and Asterope so when they burst into the room and alternated between hugging her breathless and making sure she was well and of sound mind.

Truthfully, she didn’t remember what happened after the first three or four curses were thrown at her, only flashes of it. She was grateful for it, really. She didn’t want to think what state she’d be in if she remembered it; and clearly, neither did anyone else.

Little Dominique was the only one untainted by the crushing weight of what had _really_ happened these last few days after Voldemort’s defeat; jumping on her bed with a huge smile on her face until Altair picked her up, but even then, she’d kept on babbling about Ascella and how adorable her son was and begging her father to visit again. Ascella’s son, Polaris, was only six months old and already a sweetheart, according to her cousins. Celeste had smiled warmly, but she’d looked a bit sad on her behalf.

Clara didn’t mind; if she couldn’t find it in herself to be saddened at the moment by what fate had befell her and her best mates—her _family_ —someone else might as well be.

After everything was over, Sirius and Remus sat on either side of her and took turns filling her in what had happened whilst she was in a coma—that last thing still felt surreal to think about.

By the time they were done, she was well and rightfully seething.

So, no, Clara wasn’t sad. She was furious. It was an emotion that had made puppets of them all, lately. Easier to deal with that grief, anyway.

And Clara did intend to use it to help her _deal_ with things. Namely Dumbledore. And Crouch. And Snape, but mostly Dumbledore; she didn’t doubt that after what Sirius said, Melania Black intended to deal with Bartemius Crouch herself.

Stuck in the aftermath, Clara truly could not tell who she wanted to yell at first.

She settled for internally screaming and let Walburga Black do the externally screaming part. She could have never imagined that she’d ally herself with _Walburga Black_ willingly, but she was hardly about to complain now that it was speeding up the process of things. Sirius did not seem pleased about interacting with his family again either, but he too, did not complain, and to his credit he didn’t _intentionally_ try to drag his mother into a fight.

It was something, at least, even if the attempts weren’t all that successful.

The most important thing right now was Harry, and she’d do everything in her power to ensure he was safe and with his family again. She didn’t count the Dursleys as family; the things Lily had said about her sister were less than flattering, even if the redhead had never stopped being fond of her. And so, by the time the meeting with Amelia Bones that Sirius had scheduled came around, she was fighting off her exhaustion with lots and lots of coffee; she could think about her health after everything had been settled.

The meeting was half for Sirius’ own purposes of opening the Potters’ will—that Dumbledore had sealed, _honestly_ , the nerve—and get the man in question to give them back Harry without much fuss, but also half to hand over his family’s indictment against the DMLE, Bartemius Crouch _and_ the current Minister; which meant that Barty Crouch Sr was being sued _twice_.

No one could say Melania Black did not go overboard.

She had expected Walburga to be the one to demand they sue every single Auror in the Division and to her credit she had, but Arcturus Black, the feared patriarch, had put his foot down and stated they should be using their money for useful things instead of wasting them. Admittedly, it _did_ earn him a few colourful adjectives that made even Sirius look away—and hide his laughter, because it was _Sirius_. Coward had only been one of the nicest insults thrown.

What she hadn’t expected was Melania Black, seething in all her furious glory, with magic frizzling and crackling around her as she raged, going on and on about how she would make every single one of these fools in the Ministry pay. ‘Turn their guts to acid, their organs to rot and put maggots in their eyes’ had been some of the words used, whilst overexcited and half-deranged portraits of long-dead relatives from the walls encouraged her; yelling ‘BOIL THEM!’ and ‘feed them to the crows!’. A single portrait of an elderly woman with a long nose—aunt Alexia, Sirius had whispered—had been particularly insistent on screaming ‘CRUSADE’ during lapses of silence in Melania’s speech.

Sirius hadn’t been joking when he said that he and his brother had been his grandmother’s weak spot.

In a way, Melania Black’s rage had reminded Clara a little of her grand-niece, Alice MacMillan—Longbottom now—even if the purposes and means were twisted and there had been a few words here and there that Alice would have never used.

She supposed grief made cruel and ruthless monsters of them all.

“Ms. Moore? Mr. Black?” the cordial assistant—Marigold?—of Auror Bones said kindly, and Clara raised her head from Sirius’ shoulder to look over. “Ms. Bones will see you now.”

They nodded, both of them, and stood up from the seats of the waiting room. Clara brushed the wrinkles from her robes; she felt like they had been waiting for hours, when in reality it had been only fifteen minutes as far as the clock was concerned.

The recorded passing of time is just a human-made social construct anyway.

“Sirius! Clara!” Amelia Bones addressed them by their first names; they had both been working at the DMLE long enough for that. “It’s wonderful to see you. Please, take a seat.”

Unlike the fake cordialities she had to endure at the Black’s emergency family meeting Sirius had dragged her to yesterday, Amelia’s smile and warmth were genuine.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such a short notice, Amelia,” Sirius said with a smile of his own as they took a seat.

“Of course,” Amelia inclined her head. “I am genuinely sorry for what you had to go through in the hands of the Ministry, Sirius.”

Sirius nodded his thanks. “It was Crouch’s fault, in the end. Kingsley tells me you did your best to speed up all the proceedings, I am much obliged.”

“It was the least I could do,” Amelia said dismissively. “But I’m afraid your visit here is not a social call, am I right?”

“Unfortunately, you are,” Sirius agreed. “On behalf of my family, I would like to press charges against the Ministry for my mistreatment.” He handed her the papers that had already been ready when they arrived at the Black Manor yesterday, meaning he didn't get a say in the matter.

“Of course,” Amelia said easily, accepting them. “It is only fair.” She skimmed through the pages quickly and rose an eyebrow to the same effect as McGonagall when she looked up at them. “I thought it was all Crouch’s fault?” she inquired, but she sounded faintly amused.

“My grandfather does not share my opinion.” Was all the explanation Sirius offered, but Amelia didn’t press.

“We would also like to request, as Harry’s godparents, the opening of the Potters’ will,” Clara said, deciding to get on with it before Amelia asked.

“Godparents?” Amelia asked, more surprised than anything else. Clara nodded, playing with the moonstone ring Sirius had gotten her—a subtle reference to Remus, among other things.

“Yes, Sirius and I are engaged,” she said, and couldn’t fight the smile off her face. After the Blacks’ insistence, the announcement would be on the front page of the Daily Prophet tomorrow. “We have been for a good two months now,” she admitted, solely because she considered Amelia one of her mates.

The woman looked genuinely excited for them. “That is wonderful news!” she exclaimed, smiling brightly. She was hardly the first person Clara had admitted this to, but she was the first person who wasn’t actually and practically family, and it felt freeing, in a way. “Congratulations!” They thanked her as she rummaged through her drawers. “The Potters’ will was sealed by Albus Dumbledore in the immediate aftermath of their deaths,” Amelia said, reading off the folder of papers in front of her. “It’s within his rights as the Chief Warlock.”

“We are aware,” Clara said sharply, “However, it is within _our_ rights, as Harry’s appointed legal guardians in the events of their deaths, to demand it be _uns_ ealed.” Speaking about James and Lily left her with a burning ache in her heart.

“Yes, it is,” Amelia agreed. “And I imagine the will names you as the child’s legal guardians?”

“Among other things the will does,” Clara agreed.

“I see no reason your request cannot be granted,” Amelia said. “Is Harry staying with you?”

Sirius and Clara exchanged a look. “You don’t know?” Sirius asked, and it was a sign of how much he trusted Amelia that his surprise was so visible. “Dumbledore whisked him away with claims of force majeure.”

“I was not informed of this predicament,” Amelia said, clearly put out. “But surely, Child Services should be. Excuse me a second—Marigold?” she called from an opening at the door, having walked around her desk and towards the door in three seconds flat. “Can you inform George Corner from CS that I wish to speak with him to his earliest convenience? Tell him it’s urgent.”

She closed the door and resumed her seat once more. “That will be settled once I speak with George, but by this time tomorrow the will should be open, and its requests can be carried out shortly. Do you have a reading scheduled?”

“Not yet,” Clara replied. “But if all goes according to plan, we will.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, who does the will appoint as Harry’s legal guardians?” Amelia asked, crossing her fingers together on the table.

“Sirius, myself and Remus in that order,” Clara said, knowing Amelia only had Harry’s best interests in mind. “In case anything happens to one of us, the next one takes custody.”

“I can see how Dumbledore might have thought it’d be best to seal it, what with your wrongful imprisonment and the unfortunate situation you were in, Clara,” Amelia winced sympathetically. “But still, Remus would have been more than capable of caring for Harry—the full moon isn’t for weeks now.”

For a moment Clara panicked, but then she remembered—the werewolf registration office. “Dumbledore’s attempts to be helpful is what we are trying to fix,” she said tightly. Amelia nodded in understanding.

“If any new information arises I will contact you immediately,” she promised. “But I intend to personally ensure that this time justice is executed as smoothly as it should be.”

“Thank you, Amelia,” Sirius said, rising from his chair. Clara mirrored him; Remus had opted to stay home but promised to make tea, and she was looking forward to it. “We will be in touch.”

* * *

**_17_** ** _th_ ** **_November 1981, England, London, Ministry of Magic, Level 2, Wizengamot Session Chamber_ **

The will had not been opened.

Dumbledore, for some impossible reason, had put his foot down and with a downright abuse of his privileges as the Chief Warlock had refused, time and time again, to unseal the Potters’ will. Three days now, and the sodding will had not been opened, and meanwhilst, his godson was stuck with these muggles that even Minnie thought were unfit to raise him. Corner from Child Services had left the whole thing to Dumbledore, and Sirius had had a few words to say about that.

He’d broken the living room twice with bursts of explosive magic so far, and the thing was that Remus didn’t even mind that their living room was being molested. Out of all of them—the frustrated Amelia, the disapproving Minnie, him, and the downright murderous Clara—Remus might have actually been the calmest of them all. 

But in a ‘calm before the storm’ way, and subconsciously it scared the part of Sirius that didn’t feel like tearing Dumbledore limb to limb until he had his godson back. It wasn’t an entirely justified reaction; he had no idea what the Dursleys were like, except for very unpleasant. It was a reaction he had nonetheless, but to his credit he had reined it in. Except for those outbursts of fury the poor living room payed for. 

He managed to get Remus to come with them to the Ministry this time, even though he couldn't enter the Wizengamot chamber during the House of Lords was in session. Frank volunteered to keep him company, claiming his mother could handle the session just fine. Sirius had no doubts. Augusta Longbottom reminded him a lot of a mix of his blood relatives he'd rather not think about. 

Informally, grandfather Arcturus had already handed him the title of Lord of the House ever since he’d gotten him out of Azkaban. Formally, the announcement made the pages of the Prophet yesterday morning, and the whole Wizarding Britain had been buzzing with the news since. Grandfather Arcturus had, admittedly, always been very fond of him, and took very little coaxing from his wife to hand down the title.

There was a family gathering due, in light of the news, but grandmother Melania had insisted it be held with his engagement party. She wasn’t a woman either Lord Black fancied saying no to. His mother wasn’t all that pleased—she always jumped at the opportunity of more publicity—but she’d been outnumbered; uncle Alphard and aunt Cassiopeia had agreed with his grandmother. Regulus had muttered something illegible, which meant he agreed but didn’t want to say so in front of Walburga.

Sirius intended to claim the Wizengamot seat at today’s meeting, after which action he could put the matter of the will to a vote and force Dumbledore to _finally_ unseal it. He knew he’d have the support of the House of Moore and the House of Rowle because of Clara, and he also knew his grandfather diplomatically bullied the House of Lestrange and the House of Malfoy—not that Narcissa needed much prompting—as well as a few more houses. The place-holder for the House of Potter would also vote in favour; Sirius had asked personally.

 _That_ , Dumbledore could not refuse, but if he was still set on keeping Harry with the Dursleys—why on holy magic’s sake, the _Dursleys_ of all people—there was a variety of ways he could try and refuse Sirius guardianship. Sirius intended to tear down every single one.

“Do something for me,” Clara told him after Remus and Frank left. He didn’t have to think about it. 

“Anything.”

“Don’t get too cross,” she said, fixing the house emblem on his robes as she looked past to her own House seat, where her uncle on her father’s side was talking with her uncle on her mother’s side. Sometimes, family relations were complicated, and that was coming from him, whose sides of the family were practically one and the same. “If your magic explodes, no one will take too kindly to it.”

“I know how to suppress my anger, thank you very much,” Sirius replied. His grandparents had given him and Clara some space, but he was almost certain they were eavesdropping. 

“You really don't, but that’s not what I’m saying you moron,” Clara rolled her eyes. She was dressed in her Houses’ sapphire blue robes, with her hair tied in a elaborate circular-ish braid he couldn’t begin to comprehend. It looked almost messy, with strands falling down either side of her face, but it hardly moved at all, so he figured it was either tighter than it looked or it was magically aided. “Don’t suppress anything. Channel it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sirius said. He knew what she meant; use your fury as a weapon, channel your anger into actions and words and get this thing sorted. “I promise I won’t mess up Malfoy’s face, even though my cousin’s husband could use an update.” 

Clara laughed, and it felt so good to hear it, after everything these last weeks, that Sirius could only smile fondly and stare at the way her eyes crinkled at the sides. “I’m not sure Narcissa would appreciate that,” she said finally.

“You can’t tell me she married him for his face,” he deadpanned. “It’s almost as bad as his manners.”

“Be nice,” Clara wacked him in the arm playfully, but she was fighting down a smile. He grinned. “The Malfoys have veela blood, you’re just being unfair and you know it.”

“Veela blood or not, they can never be more handsome than I am, even if his kid has Cissy’s genes,” Sirius said, looking over at the couple in question a few rows lower on the right.

“That’s why I’m marrying you and not him,” Clara said said with a smirk, looking up at Sirius and pressing a light kiss on his lips at the offended look in his face, chuckling.

“You considered marrying _him_?” he demanded with an incredulity that wasn’t for show. Clara easily laughed at him. 

“My father might had entertained the notion for a while,” she admitted. “Oi! Don’t look so affronted!”

“Was it the hair?” Sirius asked, referring to the platinum blonde hair they both had, even though Clara’s were more silver-like. “It was the hair, wasn't it?”

“No! It wasn’t the hair, shut up!” Clara tried to punch his arm again, without much success, seeing as Sirius grabbed her hand and grinned down at her. 

“Then what reason did he had, trying to marry you off to a mountain troll in disguise?”

“If you must know, it was the heritage,” Clara huffed, failing to pull her hand back from Sirius’ grip. He grinned wider. “And he doesn’t look half that bad, anyway! I said no only because he’s such a pompous ass!”

“But I’m better-looking,” Sirius smirked, looking up with a hopeful glint in his eyes. “Right?”

“Mmmm, maybe,” Clara pretended to think about it. “I like Remus better.”

“That’s fair,” Sirius allowed. “I like Remus better too.”

Clara’s responding laugher was cut off by the resounding sound of loud footsteps, followed by Dumbledore’s booming voice yelling to seal the doors. The thump that followed was deafening.

“That’s my cue,” Clara said, placing a swift kiss on his lips. “And remember,” she cupped his face with both hands and looked at him sternly. “No homicides.”

“No homicides,” Sirius promised, sneaking another kiss before she had to go back to her house’s seat.

The Wizengamot chamber was circular and huge, in imitation of King Arthur’s round table, descending in twenty rows of seats that took up the entire room. The seat of the Chief Warlock was at the center, across from the door and down to the floor. Tiers were assigned to specific groups, and the highest row—the most spacious one—was reserved for the five Ancient and Noble Houses.

The thirty out of the fifty seats of the room belonged to the pureblood families that made up the House of Lords, and almost all of them were being used today; everyone wanted to attend the new Lord Black’s oath.

“The November House of Lords session of the Wizengamot is now summoned!” Dumbledore declared from his seat. Next to him, the clerk leaned in to whisper something—Sirius already knew it was about him. “Before we start with the proceedings, Lord Black has made a request to pass down his House’s seat, to his grandson. Lord Black, do you confirm this?”

His grandfather rose. “I do.”

“Very well. Sirius Orion Black, do you accept the seat?” Dumbledore asked him.

Sirius didn’t hesitate as he stood up. “Yes.”

“Very well,” the elderly man repeated. “Please come down to the podium.” Sirius did as he was told, his emerald robes flowing gracefully behind him as he climbed down the steps until he came face to face with Dumbledore in his seat. He didn’t wait for the man to instruct him, but took out his wand—his new wand, because he had to replace the one the Ministry confiscated when he was imprisoned—and placed it on Merlin’s Book of Magic that stood closed on the desk. 

“Are you a wizard?” Dumbledore asked, following the protocol of questions.

“Yes,” Sirius replied steadily. A sliver of light burst from his wand and onto the book. 

“What is your blood status?” the Chief Warlock continued. The pureblood tradition of the House of Lords had been there as far as all his history lessons went. In the Full Court House sessions, where half-bloods and muggleborns were permitted to attend, it had some use, but here it was only a formality. Only purebloods by succession or those approved as purebloods by their family magic had the right to claim a seat in the House of Lords.

“Pureblood,” Sirius answered flatly.

“What is your family name?”

“Black.”

“And what is the name given to you at birth?”

“Sirius Orion Black.” Holy Morgana, he hated his middle name.

“Do you, Sirius Orion Black, hereby swear by law and by magic, to claim your House’s seat in the Wizengamot in front of the court of the House of Lords?”

“I swear.” His words carried around the chamber in an ominous silence, as light continued to pour from his wand.

“Do you swear to maintain the Constitution of the Magical World and uphold its laws, to fulfill your duties faithfully and conscientiously in accordance to the Magical Law and to the best of your knowledge and power execute them without fear or favour, affection or ill-will towards any person, and that you will dedicate your abilities to the service of the magical community?”

“I swear,” he said, and he felt a shift in the magic in the atmosphere with a finality, like rocks dropping down a high cliff. It wasn’t nearly as intimidating as Dumbledore’s expression seemed to say it ought to be.

“I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot High Court of the Wizarding Law and Parliament, declare you, Sirius Orion Black, Lord of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, and give you the seat of your House.”

He was tempted to nod, but he suppressed the urge and withdrew his wand from the book and taking a step back.

“You may return to your seat, Lord Black,” the clerk said formally.

That was done. Now for the second part of the plan. 

No one spoke as Sirius made his way up the stairs again. Purposely, he tried to catch Clara’s eyes, and found her already looking at him. She gave him a small smile and an encouraging nod. It was all he needed.

“Very well, Sirius,” grandmother Melania whispered as he sat back down next to her. “Very well.”

“We shall now proceed with the session,” Dumbledore continued once Sirius was seated. “The floor is open to any motions.”

Marquess Greengrass rose before anyone else could. “Motion to set the House in order.”

“The motion is highly in order and automatically passes,” Dumbledore inclined his head. If Sirius hadn’t grown up drilled into the procedures, he would have fainted out of boredom already. Fortunately, or unfortunately, for him, he knew he had to sit back in the comfy chair with a neutral expression on his face and his back straight, as if he’d swallowed a club. “The November session is called to order! Are there any other points or motions on the floor?”

This time, Sirius made sure he was the first man standing. “I would like to propose a vote, regarding the matter of the Potters’ will.” Speaking about them so distantly shouldn’t leave an ache over his heart, but it did.

“This motion is in order,” Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed even as his voice remained impassive; he knew exactly what Sirius was doing and didn’t like it at all. “Are there any seconds?”

“Second,” Lord Moore, Clara’s uncle, raised his hand, and it was Narcissa who followed suit. Lucius didn’t look all that happy about it, but he said nothing. It was a smart move. 

“Second!” It was many voices together, and Sirius was pleased to see that in its majority, the chamber had its hands raised. He spotted Polaris Rowle, Altair’s father, looking grim, and Augusta Longbottom, whose lips were pursued together. 

“This suggestion clearly passes,” Dumbledore didn’t sound all that happy about it. “Lord Black, do you propose the unsealment of the will?” At least they weren’t hiding behind their fingers. He hoped it was a good thing in this case.

“Yes.”

“All those in favour of the unsealment, please raise your hands,” Dumbledore instructed.

It was easier to count the hands that weren’t raised, and this is was Sirius did; on the side of the Marquesses, Nott and Kama looked apathetic and Avery looked unimpressed. A row lower, Crouch looked as if he was keeping his hand down begrudgingly and a step further down Yaxley looked like he could not be bothered to find the energy within him to vote. Even with Dolohov, Mulciber and Ollivander absent, it was clear his demand passed. 

“The unsealement of the will passes,” Dumbledore stated, and from experience Sirius knew the casualness in his voice was forced. Everyone else could tell too. “By the collective decision of the House of Lords, the will of James and Lily Potter is now unsealed.” The clerk scribbled something down on a piece of paper and vanished it with a flick of his wand; Sirius knew Amelia Bones was its receiver. He sat back down, satisfied, and let the session continue. Duke Selwyn—who, if Sirius’ wasn’t mistaken, was Ascella’s husband, and thus conveniently Clara’s cousin—rose to say something, and Sirius tuned the rest of the speech out, much to his grandfather’s chargin, and sought out Clara’s eyes across the floor. She smiled at him subtly; she looked pleased. He supposed they were both expecting more resistance from Dumbledore, but it didn’t matter now. The reading of the will was scheduled to happen during the Wizengamot session went on, and Amelia had promised she’d speed the proceedings up and he’d have guardianship of Harry even before the meeting was adjourned. 

He didn’t mind missing the will's reading as much as he thought he would; or as he should be, perhaps. But Remus was there, and that was as good as him and Clara being there themselves.

If he had any hopes Dumbledore wouldn’t give them any more trouble with the will, they were crushed when he called them over to his office once the break was announced. 

“I’d say it’s nice to see you, Albus, but at the moment it really isn’t,” Clara said instead of a greeting, and Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. It made Sirius furious all over again. What right did he have to act as if _they_ were the ones who had somehow offended him?

“I realize it is within your interests to take guardianship over Harry,” Dumbledore started. 

“No, it’s not within our _interests_ ,” Clara snapped. She had never been fond of the man, only working with him for James’ sake as they both did, but her whole demeanour now—crossed arms, set jaw and a glare worthy of the Anderson’s Ice Queen—was borderline hostile. “It’s within our _rights_ and it’s already happening as we speak.”

Dumbledore looked genuinely surprised at that, and it was the most genuine emotion he’d shown them so far. “I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

“Let me repeat myself with simpler words you can understand then,” Clara interrupted. “We had a reading for the will scheduled for as soon as it was unsealed—Amelia Bones is executing it as we speak. Sirius will be Harry's legal guardian by the time the Wizengamot session is over, if he isn't already. Amelia had all the papers ready at our request.”

He relished in the fact that he had never seen Dumbledore speechless before.

“This is the part where you explain why you are so set on leaving Harry with the Dursleys,” Sirius said helpfully.

“Yes,” Dumbledore regained his composure quickly with a shake of his head. “I suppose it is. I am not sure if you are aware, but Lily Potter died to save her son.”

“Of course she did!” Clara snapped. “Any mother would.”

“It is more than that, my dear girl,” Dumbledore said, seemingly unaware of the murderous glare she sent his way at the condescending tone. “With her sacrifice, Lily, unknowingly, put some protection over Harry.”

“Sacrifice has been a theme in magic for as long as magic existed,” Sirius pointed out. “It's part of the reason dark magic has been labelled 'dark' in the first place.”

“Lily's love for Harry, a love as powerful as a mother's love for her child, leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. Unwittingly, with her death Lily instilled in Harry a protection so strong that will last for years. Voldemort can never physically touch Harry, as long as the protection lives in him,” Dumbledore explained.

“So it's some sort of sacrificial protection magic,” Sirius concluded. “Lily wakened some ancient magic—figures it would be her who would.”

“Only for that magic to continue to live in Harry, he must be placed in the care of someone who shares Lily's blood,” Dumbledore continued, as if this was a turning point in the explanation. “Otherwise it will wane and fade as Harry grows up. For it to last, Harry must be able to call home the same place as that of Lily's blood relatives.”

“You want to let Harry be raised in a loveless environment away from his family, and excuse it because it's for his _protection_?” Clara demanded.

“It is the only way for Lily's protection to live on,” Dumbledore said as if this ended all arguments, spreading open his arms.

“Like hell it is,” Sirius bit out, and whilst if did earn him a scowl from Clara, he wouldn't take it back. “Harry will come live with me, Clara and Remus and that's final.” He glared, daring Dumbledore to argue with him, and never one to disappoint, the man did.

“My dear boy, I’m sure you care about Harry’s safety—”

“ _Don’t_ guilt-trip me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Don’t ever assume you’re capable of manipulating me.”

This, Sirius reflected as he stared at Dumbledore with his cold silver eyes reflecting the hate he was feeling, was not how this was supposed to go. Perhaps hate was too strong an emotion, but Sirius Black had always felt too intensely; either everything, or nothing at all. His emotions were in chaos at the moment, but one of them stood out. Cold, hard determination.

I lost my brother, Sirius thought. I lost my best mate, my _family._ I will not lose Harry too.

_You will not take Harry away from me._

He had always told his mates he’d die for them. Holed up in James’ bed in the upstate country, limbs touching from head to toe and looking at the ceiling that was clouded in the smoke of Sirius' cigarettes, he told James that his loyalty went both ways. He’d kill for them too. Remus realized it after the incident with Snape, and even if he hadn’t understood it then, he did later. Clara knew, of course she knew; she understood him in a way he wasn’t sure anyone else did, not even James. She’d kill for them too.

They all had, in the end. It was a war. The instinct to survive was a very powerful one, and it made monsters of them all. 

If Dumbledore was going to be stubborn about this, that was fine. Sirius could be stubborn too.

“Petunia Dursley has taken Harry in, and in doing so, she has sealed the charm I put on him,” Dumbledore was still trying to explain, unaware of the rage Sirius was doing his best to rein in. “Lily's sacrifice has made the Bond of Blood the strongest protection Harry could have.”

“I can understand that,” Sirius said tightly. “Much better than you give me credit for. I'm glad you told us this, even if we had to force it out of you, because now we can also take that into account when Harry moves in with us.”

“You cannot take Harry,” Dumbledore insisted, looking incomprehensive as to why that was so hard for them to understand. “I have explained the situation to Madam Dursley, and I'm sure you can understand—”

“With all due respect, Headmaster, we _are_ ancient magic,” Clara said. “As far as magic is concerned, I'm the granddaughter of the Unseelie King, in case you've forgotten, and Sirius comes from a very long family of powerful magical individuals. We are the heirs of Ancient and Noble Houses—the pompous name isn't only for show. We can understand ancient magic perfectly, maybe even better than you.”

Dumbledore looked slightly offended, but he also looked as if he would continue talking and trying to convince them of his plan, so Sirius spoke up before he had the chance to.

“Ancient magic is nothing to be toyed with,” he said, rising from his chair, “and I don't intend to leave my godson to the hands of some muggles that don't know it exists or someone with the likes of you, who for all his spotless reputation, seems to have such a limited understanding of it.” Dumbledore visibly bristled, and Sirius supposed they had just jeopardized any possible chances at reconciliation. He could easily live with that. “Ancient magic doesn't have loopholes,” he continued, “but there are many ways to seal a Bond of Blood. My godson will come stay with me and my partners—with his _family_ — and that decision is final, Albus. Have a good day.”

He followed Clara out of the office before Dumbledore could open his mouth to protest.

* * *

**_18_** ** _th_ ** **_November 1981, England, Surrey, Little Whinging, Privet Drive Number 4_ **

Petunia Dursley's house was painfully white-picket-fence-house-at-the-outskirts, that is all Alice had to say about it.

They found Number 4 of Privet Drive quite easily; the house wasn't any larger than the others, with a white picket fence, a freshly mowed lawn and a corner with well-tended roses. It had two floors, it was painted a creamy yellow and it looked so _perfect_ , Alice thought no one would blame her if she threw up. Remus certainly wouldn't.

Lily would have hated it. The house, the neighborhood, the people she could feel picking through their curtains to look at them as she and Remus knocked on the front door; everything.

“Here goes nothing,” Remus muttered and rung the bell. It made a chiming sound that was too lively for the emptiness of the street in the morning.

When Clara had come to the reading midway through, saying Sirius was channeling his anger into well-placed opinions about where the other members of the Wizengamot could shove their skin-saving policies and doing his best to get Snape arrested, she'd a felt a bit bad for these unfortunate members. With Sirius Black and Augusta Longbottom's combined anger, they never would have stood a chance.

She had been horrified to hear what they both went through; Sirius' illegal imprisonment and Clara's torture at the hands of Death Eaters demanding to know where their master was. She had been in a coma and Frank said it was a miracle she'd woken up and was still sane; Alice thought miracles had nothing to do with it. Fae magic was ancient magic, and Clara had a lot of it. Fairies did have a thing about insanity after all.

She'd volunteered to be the Auror who would accompany Remus when he went to retrieve Harry; she knew Lily better than most Aurors in the Department, and she and Remus would come off friendly enough. They could also politely but firmly sidestep any of Petunia Dursley's protests, and if necessary put the fear of magic in her, that according to Marlene she had well and truly instilled already.

Leaving home this morning after breakfast with her mother-in-law and only after making sure Frank would be alright with Neville on his own, she bad barely managed to glimpse the Daily Prophy's front page; the news about Harry Potter's new guardianship had broken out, and a picture of Sirius exiting the Wizengamot had been appropriately placed. It didn’t prove anything except a side of him she’d always known existed. Sirius looked murderous, there was no other word for it. He was in the robes of the Lord of the House of Black as he pushed the chamber's doors open, jaw set, face hard and looking absolutely furious. Exactly how Alice Longbottom was feeling herself.

Remus had given her a rundown of why Dumbledore wanted to leave Harry with the Dursleys as they made their way here, and she still wasn't sure she'd heard right. Old age had never made Dumbledore daft, but now she wondered if perhaps it had, and they were only now realizing it. But then again, perhaps his idyllistic image sculpted by the media had finally given away to what it truly was; a facade.

Alice's family, the MacMillans, whilst by no means feared or apt in the ancient magic, were a pureblood family of the first order; well-respected, fairly powerful and had done their basic homework on the ancient ways of magic. Sirius was right, there were a lot of ways to seal a Bond of Blood that didn't require Harry to actually _live_ with the Dursleys. Alice and Lily had always dreamt of their children growing up together and becoming best mates like the two of them had come to be despite their age difference. Lily had hoped they could get to call each other family, and not only because of the relation between the Potters and the Longbottoms.

She owned it to Lily to see this through.

If she didn't know Petunia Dursley was Lily's sister, she would have never guessed when the woman opened the door. She was tall, with bleached blond hair tied back from her face—horse-like, James' description came to mind and she thought he really hadn't been kidding—an abnormally long neck and bleak blue eyes. She was wearing a orange sundress, looking far more formal than Alice would have thought.

“Mrs. Dursley,” Remus said, flashing a polite smile. “My name is Remus Lupin, and this is Alice Longbottom. We were very good mates of your late sister, Lily. We're here to see Harry, if we might come in?”

At the mention of Lily, the woman's face soured like she'd tasted a lemon. Alice liked to pretend it was the way she showed grief. She studied them over, a judgmental look she didn't even try to hide forming in her face as she took in Alice's white jeans and navy shirt and Remus' worn jeans and sweater. She'd thought they did a great job at the muggle attire.

“I would rather you didn't come into my house,” Petunia Dursley said with obvious distaste, “but I have been hoping someone will come for the boy ever since I found him on my doorstep. Have you come to take him back?”

“Yes,” Remus said easily, and the tightness of his voice was what she herself was feeling; _found_? On her _doorstep_? _This_ was what Dumbledore considered 'placing' with his muggle family? “We have come to take Harry back to his family, but I assume you will feel better discussing this in your living room, away from prying eyes.”

The last part was what won over Mrs. Dursley's doubts, and with one scrutinizing look at the street behind them, stepped aside to let them in.

“Vernon is at work,” she said stiffly.

“That's alright, Mrs. Dursley, it's you we need to speak with,” Alice said lightly, venturing into the house by herself. “This is your living room?” she asked, looking at the polished fireplace, the long white curtains and the small coffee table in the middle, over an ugly brown carpet. She sat down in one of the sofas with flower patterns on them. “Could you please bring Harry? Remus and I will wait here. Some tea, if you have any, would be nice,” Alice said, channeling her inner grandmother. Harriet MacMillan—born Harriet Max—was a force of a woman, and had always commanded respect from people.

Petunia Dursley looked put out, almost scandalized, to be told what to do in her own house, but a look at Remus' wand, sticking out from his jacket pocket—purposely, she guessed, and had to stifle a laugh—had her quickly reconsidering her response.

“Yes, I'll bring you the boy,” she said, a little tense. “Just don't do any of your… freaky tricks in my house.”

“Freaky tricks?” Alice asked aloud once Petunia Dursley was out of sight. “Dear Hecate, I'm beginning to see what Lily had meant.”

“Something tells me it's only going to get worse,” Remus said grimly. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we'll be able to take Harry back. I can't wait to get out of here.”

“Are you nervous?” Alice asked gently. “About seeing Harry again?”

“Merlin, yes,” Remus admitted. “A part of me is afraid he won't remember me.”

“Don't be silly,” Alice said, reaching for one of his hands and holding it, trying to give him some comfort. “Of course he will remember you. I know it feels like an eternity, but it's barely been three weeks.”

“I know, I know,” Remus sighed. “But I'm worried anyway.”

Seeing Harry again, in Petunia Dursley's arms, was a harsh reminder of what they had lost, of what this baby had lost. Harry hadn't changed at all. His black hair was unruly as ever, and his eyes were wide, Lily's emerald green shining in their irises, and she thought they looked sad; but maybe that was because that's what she expected to see. The only thing different about him was the wicked scar, almost in lightning shape, covering his entire forehead. Harry's eyes raked over them both and stayed on Remus.

“MOO'Y!” he called out happily, reaching with his hands for him. “Moo'y!”

“Hello, Harry,” Remus said, his voice unusually thick as be stood up and gently took Harry from Petunia, who recoiled from his touch as if she'd been slapped. Remus didn't seem to notice, his entire focus had shifted to Harry who was now looping his small arms around his neck.

“Moo'y,” Harry said again. 

“Yes, I missed you too, cariad,” Remus said, holding Harry close as if his life depended on it, tucking his chin over the tiny head and closing his eyes tightly to keep in the tears. He sat back down next to her after a moment, and Alice decided now would be a great time to do what they came here to.

“Mrs. Dursley, I have been sent by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to carry out the order of Harry's change in guardianship,” she said, unbothered by Harry's fascination with her dark brown hair as she handed Petunia Dursley the papers naming Sirius as Harry's legal guardian. “The procedure is very simple, you have to willingly hand Harry over to us, as well as a few drops of your blood.”

“You can have the boy,” Petunia Dursley said entirely too easily. “He can be raised by his godfather for all I care.” Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Remus' grip of Harry tighten. “But I refuse to give you my blood.”

“I'm sure Albus Dumbledore informed you of the delicate predicament we are in,” Alice said with a tight, sweet smile, growing even more cross with Petunia Dursley's apathy towards Harry. “He has admitted to writing you a letter, has he not?” The woman nodded. “Can I see that letter?”

“I burned it,” she said, and Alice refrained from rolling her eyes; it figured.

“Either way,” Alice continued with forced cheer, “I'm sure even a muggle such as you would be able to understand the gravity of the situation.”

“You're wizards,” she said the word 'wizards' the way one might say murderers. “I'm sure you can find a different way to keep Harry safe.”

It was the first time she'd used his name, Alice noted.

“Petunia, I am sure you understand that ancient magic is very powerful,” Remus cut in, holding Harry on his lap as the baby played with his fingers. “If we don't have a few drops of your blood then you will be forced to raised Harry here, and be subjected to weekly visits from his family of wizards, and I assure you neither of us is fond of that arrangement.”

Petunia Dursley visibly paled at the prospect. “How much of my blood will you need?” Despite the fact that this was what they wanted, Alice couldn't help but be furious at her lack of care for Harry.

“Only a few drops,” Remus told her with his teacher's voice, as if he was speaking to a child. “The small cut of a knife will do. We can always use our magic to get one, if you don't wish to cause yourself harm...” The blood drained from Petunia's face, and she quickly shook her head. “Well, in that case, if you wouldn't mind filling that vial for us...” Remus handed her a small elixir vial they had brought with them, and Petunia rushed to the kitchen.

Alice laughed aloud when she was out of sight; Remus Lupin, purposely terrifying a muggle woman in her own house. She'd always been fond of him, Remus had been much fun at the prefect meetings, and he was always kind and polite, even if he looked knackered more often than not. She had never been naive enough to believe he was as innocent as he looked; he had been a Marauder, after all.

“Look at you, scaring the poor woman out of her wits,” Alice chuckled. “Who would have thought Remus Lupin would be capable of that?”

“I was just reminding her how we can help!” Remus defended, but he was fighting down a smile. Harry wriggled in his arms.

“'Lice!” he said excitedly, reaching for her blonde hair again.

“Yes, that's Alice,” Remus confirmed, smoothing down some of Harry's hair with a smile. “You remember Alice, cariad?”

Harry nodded, but Petunia Dursley chose that moment to reappear. 

“Here,” she practically shoved the vial, now a crimson colour, into her face and stayed standing. “You can take the boy and leave now.”

“We will,” Alice said, standing up herself; she could not bear to spend another moment there. She was afraid she might lose her restraint and throw a few hexes the woman's way. “How is your hand?”

Instinctively, Petunia Dursley looked down at her palm that had a cut slicing it open, and Alice used the opportunity to mutter a healing spell as she flicked her wand. It was worth it, only to see the way Petunia Dursley almost fainted on the spot.

“Won't you give us Harry's things?” Remus asked sweetly, balancing Harry on his hip expertly.

“He didn't have any things,” Petunia Dursley said stiffly, trying to regain her confident air. “It was only him and the letter on my doorstep when I opened the door. I have been giving him some of Dudley's things.”

“How considerate of you,” Remus said sarcastically, and Alice had to bite her tongue to hold in a snort. “You don't mind us using your fireplace, do you? It would be unwise to apparate with a baby.” 

He didn't wait for an answer, heading for the fireplace and stepping into it as Alice followed. Petunia Dursley was looking at them with barely concealed terror. With slow moments that were purely for show, Remus took the floo powder out of his pocket and threw it down, yelling out his flat's address. He disappeared in a flash, and Petunia Dursley paled like someone had defaulted her to a black and white photograph. Alice repeated the words and disappeared from that Merlin-awful house in a cloud of dust.

* * *

**_20_** ** _th_ ** **_November, England, London, Diagon Alley, Adalbert Waffling Street Number 17 B_ **

When there was a knock on a door five minutes after Remus went out to the local muggle supermarket, Sirius was certain it was him who had forgotten his keys behind. _Again_. He opened the door again with said keys in hand—honestly, Remus, they were _right there_ on the counter—but stopped short when he saw not brown-haired, scar-faced, blue-eyed Remus, but his little brother and his only blonde cousin, Narcissa.

“You literally just missed Andromeda,” he said after he got over the initial surprise, mind immediately going back to Narcissa’s sister who had come by to see little Harry. “Literally. She left ten minutes ago.”

“Seeing as we want to speak with you and not Andy, I’d say that’s not really a problem,” Regulus rolled his eyes. “Hello to you too, Siri.”

Regulus pushed passed him, seemingly above heartfelt greetings, and admittedly he wasn’t the sort of person who was very open with his feelings, but Sirius had always been able to read his little brother. He knew he was happy to see him, happy that Sirius was here. The easiness in his shoulders gave it away; and the fact that he had hugged Sirius until he could scarcely breathe when he came back from Azkaban was another giveaway.

“Hello, Narcissa,” Sirius told his cousin, rolling his eyes at his brother who moved in the flat to find Clara and greet her. He expected her to quip a flat greeting back, but she surprised him by throwing her arms around him and giving him a proper hug—Narcissa hadn’t given him hugs ever since he was ten.

Maybe he was right after all; his family _had_ gone bonkers.

“Hello, Sirius,” Narcissa smiled when she pulled back, and inspected the rest of the flat with her eyes. “It’s cozy, but too muggle-like,” she decided finally.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer through that,” Sirius said without much emotion. “Living room’s that way, pick a sofa,” he told her, leading her there.

“Narcissa!” Clara exclaimed, getting sidetracked from her conversation with Regulus for a moment. She was wearing a short black skirt and one of Remus’ green sweaters—the ones his mum knitted herself—and she had Harry propped against her left hip, stirring his food in the kitchen with her arm that wasn’t holding him. “I didn’t know you would be coming!”

“Neither did I, but Regulus was very persuasive,” Narcissa said with a smile, and it was an actual smile, not that fake one she usually had plastered on her face. “This is the famous Harry Potter then,” she said, walking closer. “Hello, little man.” She smiled brightly, cooing at the baby, and Sirius marveled at how much younger she seemed without the edges.

“Being a mother made her soft,” Regulus told him quietly, but it wasn’t in a sneer as his mother would have said it. He sounded almost happy about it.

“She’s always been soft,” Sirius replied, remembering how much fuss Narcissa would make every time one of them got hurt whilst they were playing, how she went out of her way to get them out of trouble with his parents, even though she’d always done it much more subtly than Andromeda. “It’s not a trait our family takes kindly to.”

“See, Harry, this is Sirius’ cousin,” Clara was saying to Harry, who laughed delightedly at Narcissa and reached to pull at the strands of her blonde hair that had escaped her bun. “This is Cissy.”

“Cissy,” Harry repeated happily.

“That’s right, Harry,” Narcissa let him hold on to her index finger. “I’m aunt Cissy. And this—” she grabbed hold of Regulus’ robes without turning back and hauled him forwards right in front of Harry. “—is uncle Reg. Sirius’ brother.”

“Reg!” Harry exclaimed excitedly, moving his hands around. “’Foo!” It was what he called Sirius, because ‘Padfoot’ was too much of a mouthful to say for a one-year-old.

“Yes, they look a lot alike, don’t they?” Clara asked, looking between the two Black brothers in amusement. Regulus looked positively terrified at the prospect of interacting with a baby. “But now, we’re going to let Padfoot, Reg and Cissy talk, and we’ll go eat, okay?”

“Foo!” Harry insisted stubbornly.

“Padfoot has some family stuff to sort through,” Clara insisted. “We can eavesdrop from the kitchen, come on.” Harry continued to wriggle in her arms, but she was having none of it.

“I hope you know she _is_ going to eavesdrop on us,” Sirius informed his relatives. “And loosen up, Harry is hardly going to eat you,” he told his brother, who glared fiercely in reply.

“I had a feeling you were going to tell her anyway,” Narcissa said as she took a seat on the nearest sofa as if she owned it. Some things, it appeared, would never change. “And if you didn’t I would have yelled you into doing in.”

“Sounds interesting,” Sirius allowed, sitting down on the other sofa with Regulus.

“As I’m sure you know,” Narcissa started, no beating around the bush, “Lucius had foolishly been involved with the Dark Lord.”

“Yes, I heard he had a trial a few days ago,” Sirius interjected. “No offence, but I don’t think anyone buys the Imperiatus excuse.”

“It’s not true,” Narcissa allowed. “But that hardly matters now. What we came here to tell you is that the Dark Lord had entrusted both Bella and Lucius with some items he claimed to be of immeasurable value.” Sirius raised an eyebrow, sneaking a look at Regulus, who had obviously heard this before. “I managed to convince Lucius to give it to me—it’s an old empty diary. I also managed to take the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff that he had given Bella from the Lestranges’ vault in Gringotts.”

Sirius whistled. Both at the Helga Hufflepuff part, that was legendary on itself, and the fact that Narcissa had managed to get the goblins at Gringotts to give her access to a vault that wasn’t hers. It was an impressive feat.

“That was after I told her my theory,” Regulus cut in, “about the Dark Lord having made horcruxes.”

The word hung heavy in the air for a while as Sirius tried to make his eyes go back to their normal size. “Horcruxes?” he asked finally. It was the worst kind of the worst kinds of dark magic.

“It makes sense,” Regulus said. “He’s supposed to be dead, but there was no body. And he doesn’t _look_ human, anyway—no nose, red eyes, people don’t just suddenly look like that when they perform dark magic. I mean, look at you! Look at aunt Cassiopeia!” Sirius conceded the point wordlessly and nodded for him to continue. “Two years ago, the Dark Lord had requested a house elf, and Bella volunteered Kreacher. He came back when I ordered him to—for mother’s tea, ironically—sopping wet and traumatized. I made him tell what had happened, and he told me about how the Dark Lord took him to a cave and made him drink a potion—from his descriptions I think it was the Drink of Despair—and put in a locket that he claimed was his solution to death, and then he left Kreacher to die. Only he underestimated elf magic, and Kreacher didn’t die because I summoned him back.”

“Shame,” Sirius said, and it earned him a glare and a whack on the head from his little brother. “OI! No violence in the house, come on!”

“As we were saying,” Narcissa continued dryly, ignoring them both, “Regulus spent a good year researching and finally he realized it was a horcrux, it had to be. And so, he told me, and we went together to get the locket.”

Sirius blinked. “You willingly went into a shady cave to drink the Drink of Despair and get a locket?”

“It’s Salazar Slytherin’s locket,” Regulus defended. “And it was inside the cave in a tiny island around a lake of Inferi.”

Sirius stared at his little brother, trying to process the information, and then turned to Narcissa, who was regarding him with the same serious, flat look. They were not joking. “And they call _me_ the impulsive one.”

“We had a plan,” Regulus quipped irritably.

“Anyhow,” Narcissa cut in before they could start arguing, “the point is, we thought the locket was the only horcrux, but then I remembered the diary and the Cup, and after acquiring them and comparing their magic energies, we realized they were _all_ horcruxes.”

“He made _three_ of them?” It wasn’t usually that Sirius showed incredulity, but he thought it was warranted.

“We suspect he made even more than that,” Narcissa said grimly, putting a lock of stray hair behind her ear. “And there is a spell we can do to make sure and find out what the rest of the items are, but we can’t do it by ourselves.” She pursued her lips together, and he knew it was taking a lot from her and her pride to say that.

“It’s too advanced dark magic,” Regulus explained, looking precariously serious. “Too complicated. We’ll ask uncle Alphard, or aunt Cassie, if you don’t want to do it, but we… _I_ trust you more.” Regulus raised his head until grey eyes met silver ones, and held their stare steadily, letting Sirius know he meant it. It was oddly touching.

“He will,” Clara’s voice startled them all. She didn’t have Harry attached to her anymore, and Sirius figured she had already put him to sleep. “He’ll help you,” she told them, but even then, her dark blue eyes searched his own for permission. He nodded.

“I will,” he decided. “If the bastard had a death insurance policy, I want to get rid of it myself.”

“Excellent!” Clara smiled brightly. “I already made tea, how does that sou—”

There was a knock on the door, followed by Remus’ voice floating inside the apartment. “SORRY!” he called. “I FORGOT MY KEYS!”

“Again,” Clara rolled her eyes fondly. “I’ll go get that,” she said, and disappeared down the corridor.

“We thought you might be able to do it tomorrow, after your engagement party,” Regulus said once she was gone. “We have the horcruxes at Grimmauld, but we can get them.”

“You left the horcruxes with mother?” Sirius raised an eyebrow. Walburga Black was no stranger to dark magic, even if she did not excel in it, but she’d be able to recognize a horcrux when she saw one.

“We thought it would be best to hide them in plain sight,” Regulus argued. “And besides, Kreacher will make sure she doesn’t find them.”

“Oh yes, of course, because _Kreacher_ —”

“Regulus!” Remus exclaimed from the door, making them all turn. He had discarded his jacket somewhere, and he was in a jumper and jeans that fit him perfectly. His hair was in a disarray and his cheeks and nose were flushed adorably red. “Narcissa. I did not know you were coming.”

“It was a spontaneous visit,” Narcissa said, falling back to her mask of polite indifference. “And it is no matter, we were just leaving.”

“But I want—” Regulus tried to protest, but she cut his words off with a pointed scowl.

“It can wait until the engagement party tomorrow,” she said simply.

“You don’t have to leave because of me,” Remus said, smiling a little. “I can go make tea or something.”

“Two steps ahead of you, mo ghrá,” Clara appeared behind him and kissed him on the cheek, setting the flying teapot down at the coffee table. “But you really don’t have to leave.”

“I should get back,” Narcissa shook her head. “Who knows what Lucius and Draco have gotten themselves into?”

It was ten minutes later that they had all said their goodbyes and Narcissa and Regulus had left, that Sirius, Clara and Remus found themselves sitting side by side on one of the sofas, tea forgotten.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to the engagement party tomorrow?” Sirius asked, craning his neck to look at Remus over Clara.

“It’s _your_ engagement party,” Remus pointed out with his eyes closed, head thrown back the cushions. “And besides, it’s a pureblood society party. My half-blood, werewolf self would hardly fit in.”

“They can’t do anything in front of the guests,” Sirius promised.

“I don’t want you to get in a fight at your engagement party,” Remus told him with a finality. “I’ll stay home and watch Doctor Who—I’ll have more fun that the two of you anyway.” Sirius had to concede the point.

“Speaking of weddings,” Clara spoke up suddenly. She was sandwiched between the two them, holding Sirius’ hand with her right and Remus’ with her left and playing with their fingers, “I’ve been thinking.”

“You do that a lot,” Sirius pointed out, and it earned him a scowl he grinned at.

“Right now, Sirius is the only who has legal guardianship over Harry.” She elected to ignore him and continue. “When the two of us get married, I, too, will have guardianship over Harry. But Remus won’t, and if anything happens it’ll be even harder to convince the Ministry of his place as Harry’s guardian, considering his furry little problem.”

“Valid point,” Remus allowed, he had yet to open his eyes, “And your solution?”

“If I marry Remus after I already have guardianship over Harry, I can give Remus guardianship too,” Clara said. “And then all three of us will be Harry’s legal guardians.”

“Wait, so, what you’re saying is that you want to get married twice?” Sirius asked, but his brow was creased, and he appeared to be thinking it over. “It is, admittedly, a solid plan. And you can, too, if we have a pureblood wedding and you and Remus have a muggle one—there’s no law against it.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?” Remus smirked. He had opened his eyes and was now looking at Clara with fondness and a little amusement in the turn of his lips and the twinkle in his eyes.

“Depends,” Clara grinned up at him. “Are you going to say yes?”

“Depends. Are you asking me to solve a technicality or are you asking me because you want to?” Remus quipped back, grinning as well.

“Depends. Does your mum like me?”

Remus threw his head back and laughed. “I think she likes you better than she likes me,” he said truthfully. “You have both charmed her and it’s completely unfair.” He looked at Sirius who threw him a cheeky grin.

“I’m in favor of the two weddings plan,” he declared instead of an answer. “Think about it, Moony, we can be each other’s best men!”

Remus and Clara laughed; she turned towards him when her laughter subsided, placed a soft kiss on his lips and looked at him with a small smile. “So, Remus Lupin, do you want to marry me? Because I really _really_ want to marry you.”

“Why, yes,” Remus smiled back, leaning in until their noses were touching. “Clara Moore, I’ll marry you.” She grinned, a lopsided but happy grin, and he didn't even have to think before he closed the small gap between them, bringing their lips together. She brought her hands up to cup his cheeks, and for a moment she was everything he could feel.

“That’s such a sweet moment!” Sirius exclaimed dramatically, pretending to shed a few tears and then threw his arms around both of, engulfing them in a hug, effectively ruining; or improving the moment, depending on the view.

“I don’t have a ring to give you, though,” Clara said as an afterthought. “Damn, I should have thought this through better.” They laughed.

They’d lost almost everything, but this was as a good place as any to start over.


End file.
